Digital Tart

Miela

They drove in silence for a while. Medway was in
constant contact with the police nets, trying to get information on
either of the men who had followed them.

“So? Who are... were they?” Clare was
caught up in her own central worry – Lilywhite might survive the
Digital Tart by sacrificing Clare Farral. So she needed a
lead, an advantage, something from Niels and Muscles... like... “Who
do they work for?”

“No information.” Medway was not surprised –
nothing about her investigation was easy or obvious. “No matches
for faces or fingerprints. The quick DNA test is crude – sometimes
you get lucky, but not this time.” Two ghosts, two dangerous
professionals. “An investigation team will dig further.”

“So... I mean... the explosion was a good idea,
right?”

“Unorthodox... illegal...” And absolutely right for
the people who killed Kyla. “Creative. I like it.” Just
desserts for anyone associated with shooting Jaz. “If it ever came
to court... and it won’t... reasonable force, extreme
circumstances...”

“But they died.” Not killed by Clare, but suicide.
“I mean... why?”

“Professionals.” And that was crap – Medway had
enough contact with hired help, a lot of them ex-cybercops. “No.
Something else. Whatever they were getting paid... who the hell tops
themselves at the first sniff of a cop?”

“So this Digital Tart has crazy-loyal people who die
for her. Or him.”

“Or them. Still don’t know what Digital Tart
is... and perhaps it was a double-murder. No suicide at all.” The
attack on the police barracks killed all of the assailants, but that
was because dozens of off-duty officers with weapons and training
took them down. “A remote. Or stress-triggers. Something automated.
You thought Niels was in charge – no reason why the guy with the
dead-man switch had to be the one in charge.”

“Shit.” The Digital Tart sent out people wired to
die. “You think they knew? Shit... of course they knew... Niels
knew. And Muscles triggered it.”

“Or reported in.” Medway reviewed her logs – there
had been a lot of chatter on the public nets and no chance to log it
all. “Muscles reported in... and someone else... decided.
Those two were... done with. There was no need to kill them –
plenty of time later after we arrested them and if we
got close to something. So they were done with. No longer needed.
Someone chose to do the housekeeping now... Bloody ruthless,
but very practical.” So rethink the assault on the barracks –
the attackers all died because they never stood a chance. Someone –
the Digital Tart maybe – sent them in, not expecting them to come
back.

"How did they do it?" Clare asked
eventually. "How did they kill Niels?"

How the hell should I know? There was a delay
before Medway replied. "A poison capsule, maybe? A small
disruption charge against the brain-stem? Only the post-mortem will
sort that out."

"Could it have been the cortical interface?”
Clare tapped the side of her head. “Direct brain damage or
something?"

"Afraid you’ve been rigged to die?"

"Yeah." Clare stared into the distance. Niels
had had a second or two of foreknowledge – would she even get that
much? "Phil didn’t have these implants done out of the
goodness of his heart."

"It is theoretically possible, but it would never
be that quick. Besides... wouldn’t Una have found it? I had the
impression that computer was designed for finding things like that."

Clare laced her fingers together over her stomach. "Not
really. Una is very clever and a little bit strange, but it was
supposed to find hostile patterns in net traffic. I think Bob also
did something weird to Una – but probably not enough that it could
track down something clever programmed into my processors. And we
know that Phil is one seriously devious bastard."

"Take my advice – get them removed and replaced
with something conventional."

"I might do that."

"Would you have poked his eyes out?" Medway
asked, as they approached the jurisdiction of the Greater London
Police.

"I don’t know." Clare was still thinking
about her possibly treacherous implants. "I think that I was
just bluffing. Depends on what he’d said next. I was pretty pissed
off." Could this stuff in my head make me do it? Or stop
me?

"It’s a big question," Medway told her
softly. "They ask you something similar when you train to be a
cybercop. Can you shoot someone if required? They ask that long
before you get the implants."

"How do they know? Do they just take your word for
it?"

Medway chuckled. "They spend a few weeks teaching
you how to use a gun and then they send you out on the streets with a
real cop. Just to see how you perform. That course ends when they
know the answer to the question."

"Isn’t that dangerous? Trainee cop with no
armour?"

"Oh, you wear standard body armour – not the
fancy stuff hitched to a processor array. Just enough to give you a
good chance against the average shit-with-a-gun."

Clare knew what was coming. "Who did you shoot?"

"A kid. Some mindless piece of trash. My training
officer was sorting out a hold-up. He left me watching the front door
while he went round the back. It was a fair bet that the real hard
scum would try to smash their way out there. So I got the pathetic
little shit waving an automatic rifle like he had a flag at a parade.
Dumb kid fired at me and I shot him – dead before he hit the
ground."

"There were always rumours.” Clare forgot about
her possible programmed death. “Watch out for the trainee cops.
I only ever saw a couple. Even Kyla used to say keep out of their
way."

"Gun happy," Medway grunted. "They never
tell you on the course, but the rumours always go round. Graduation
exam – kill a crook and become a cybercop. Some recruits get a bit…
trigger happy."

"Scary."

Medway coughed, so
close to uttering the authoritarian line that’s the way
it has to be... "Perhaps someone ought to change it."
Francesca Tarbuck's sister hadn’t fallen foul of a trainee, but she
was still a victim and survivor of the worst side of the police.
“Hard ways... from harder times. Time for changes.”

“That’s politics.” And too expensive for Clare,
just trying to stay alive. “Someone else can do that. Career
change, Officer Medway?”

“No. Not me. Back to the suit.” There was no doubt
that the way the police, or more specifically the cybercops operated,
was less than ideal. “But I know someone... corporate. She’s
looking for a cause. Almost got a toe in politics.” The streets
were nowhere near as rough as they had been when the enhanced
divisions were first set up. Perhaps it was time to change
things. “You ought to meet her... that would be interesting. Meet
her and her sister... that would be very interesting.”

“Politicians.” Clare hunkered down in the seat. “No
thanks.”

“Kyla would have liked her. Would probably have taught
her sister how to keep out the way of RPG exhaust.”

“A politician with a sister... with a face...”

“Melted.” Someone
really ought to try to persuade her. Someone like Lianne Medway.
“Like I said. You ought to meet her.” And help persuade.

“Right. If I survive this. Yeah. Why not?”

The London suburbs grew up around them and Lameduck
switched over to its electric motors on command from the traffic
nets. The constant whine of the gas turbines had become a part of the
background, only noticeable when it suddenly stopped. The ancient
capital – still clinging on to its reputation as a financial centre
– was quieter than usual. The nets were mostly running again and
traffic was as under control as it ever was, but there was a scent of
caution in the air. People were waiting for the other boot to drop.

"I ought to give Lilywhite a call." Clare
glanced at Medway - shot a kid to qualify as a cop. "I
don’t want to get shot this close to home. Security will be
nervous."

"Lameduck can route the call," Medway offered.

<Lameduck: Contact has been made. Arrival
instructions have been issued.>

Clare leant forwards to talk to the car. "Nothing
else?"

<Lameduck: Arrival and parking instructions.>

"Doesn’t sound like your boss wants to talk to
you," Medway observed.

"You going to carry your gun?"

"You think I shouldn’t?"

“No. I mean yes. I mean..." Clare was bugged by
the lack of updates or instructions from Calder. “I think you
definitely should carry your gun. And spare ammunition. Lots
of spare ammunition. Maybe a spare gun. Two spare guns…"
Something was not right. “One of those bastard, face-melting RPGs
if you’ve got it.”

“Sorry... withdrawn.” Too bloody dangerous...
and not for indoor use.

Lameduck rolled down the ramp to the Lilywhite car pool.
The armoured doors eased up into the roof, barely letting them pass
through before closing again. Both Clare and Medway glanced nervously
over their shoulders. Lameduck navigated its way to the designated
parking slot.

The car pool was just how Clare remembered it – noise,
people, machinery and smells. She’d been expecting it to be
deserted, perfectly empty so that no one else would get caught in a
treacherous hail of bullets.

"Looks busy." Medway kicked the door fully
open. “Who’s that?”

A young woman approached, walking daintily with an air
of childish innocence, cheeks and cleavage sparkling with
SpangleDust. "Hi Clare."

"Hi… Annie." It took Clare a moment
to put name and face together – disturbing since the pair of them
had worked through a bottle of wine only a few of weeks previously.

"Bit of both… They’re waiting for you
upstairs." Annie stared at Medway. "Are you a real
cop?"

Clare heard the tone, the innocent tease, the verbal
trap just waiting – normally she would let a cop stew, but this
was Medway, friend of Jaz, perhaps even friend of Clare... <Careful.
Not innocent. Not fussy.>

<Medway: You’re getting better at that. Is she the
Annie...? Of course she is.> "Real enough." Medway's
hand settled on the butt of her gun. "Just coming off light
duties. Medical problems. Need a little target practice."

"Follow me," Annie said sweetly and then
whispered to Clare, "She mean it?"

"Yeah. Watch yourself, Annie." A few weeks
ago, Clare would have helped Annie lay the verbal snares. “Is that
a new shade of SpangleDust?”

“Dead new. Buyer-luminous or something like that.”
Her hips twitched. “Saw the ads. A sprinkle to light the way.
Can get you some, if you like.”

"More than I have time to detail," Madame
replied as the doors opened. "Please proceed down the passage
and take the first left."

"Another computer?" Medway guessed.

"Yeah. It’s…" It had never been
explicitly said, but Clare was certain that Madame was the same as
the system which identified itself as ‘Server’ on the DigiTart
programme. So Madame was a Digital Tart – possibly the
Digital Tart. Oh, crap... "It’s very good at what
it does." And was probably all of those digital helplines
and chat services. But are you a criminal mastermind?

They turned left. A door opened automatically halfway
down a short corridor – Medical Suite 3. It looked much the
same as the rest of the Lilywhite building, clean and functional, but
with the added scent of disinfectant and suspension gel, and white
lab-suits hanging on the walls, an empty honour-guard flanking the
path to the inner door.

"How the hell should I know? It smells like..."
that bloody lab at Coriolis...

“Suspension gel... just...” Medway expected to see
Jaz later that day, if everything went well. Alive, well and not
hanging in sludge. All they had to do was catch Elsworth… “Bad
associations.”

“Fuck. I’m too young to have hang-ups like this.”
Clare took a determined step over the threshold. She had enough
hang-ups for someone twice her age – no need to add more. “No
reason Lilywhite shouldn't have gel lying around.” Along with
scary medical kit, breather-suits and ominous double-doors ahead,
extensively labelled with hazard and restricted access.
"One way to find out..."

One door flapped open long enough for a white-suited
meditech to call out, “Come on then.”

“Right.” Clare strode on. “Can’t be bad...”
She stopped dead just inside. Can be awful.

Miela hung naked in a gel tank, a complex umbilical
providing air to a face mask and a tangle of cables to link to her
nodes. Bob Critchley studied her randomly twitching muscles – a
helpless fly caught by a spider-web of trailing connections. A team
of meditechs gathered close by, monitoring.

"What the hell?"

Bob looked round. "Clare. You made it. You
remember Miela?" He was like a kid with a new toy.

Medway stepped to one side for a better look. "Shit…
what are you doing?"

"Come in… come in…" Bob looked pleased
with himself, the kid with the new toy, and about to perfect the art
of pulling the wings off flies.

Clare moved closer – he’s as bad as bloody
Phil... "So? What are you doing?"

"Asking her questions." Bob was suddenly
defensive, every inch the malicious child. "The room is
shielded so she can't make transmissions. Her only contact with the
outside world is through her nodes."

"Not really. Her system is so complex we don’t
have anything sophisticated enough to co-ordinate the activities –
only Una could do that." The defensive tone was overlaid with
frustration. He was just itching to pull another wing off that fly.

"And Calder won’t let you take her back up there
because it’s too dangerous." Clare stopped and stared -
muscles twitched frantically up Miela’s left thigh, ripples riding
up through her buttock and high into her back. "Is she supposed
to be quivering like that?"

"She was being uncooperative." The naughty boy
was caught with a wing in his fingers. "I think we’re making
her believe that that leg is being burned. Difficult to be sure."

Clare shuddered – absolutely and completely as bad as
Phil. “And is it helping?”

“Just need time...”

“How much time?” How much pain? Miela –
probably a part of the conspiracy, because she lied about too
many things, probably a deserving subject... “Torture, Bob.
Right? You know that? Is this the way Lilywhite does things?”

“We need answers. I need answers... People got
hurt and Miela is a part of it. So I need...”

“You need to get laid by a nice girl with big
tits. What you want is revenge for the nice girl with big tits
who got shot. And this...” Clare hammered her fist on the
side of the tank. “Not the way to do it.”

"No bloody use, either," Clare growled,
smacking the tank again. "Compared to what Phil has already
done...” Screaming in the dark, not being able to scream in the
dark... “Absolutely pointless. Phil is a torture expert. This
is fucking amateur hour. Have you learnt anything?"

"We have learned nothing," Madame announced
smoothly, pushing Bob into a silent sulk. "It would be most
logical to allow me to interface directly with Miela, but Calder is
afraid that Doctor Elsworth may have intended just that." The
twitching leg relaxed. "Perhaps if you talk to her she might be
more co-operative."

"Why not take her out of the tank?" Clare
suggested.

"Calder feels that this is the safest way to do
it," Madame replied.

Bob stood up and gestured to his chair. "Sit down,
Clare." He handed her a headset – identical to the ones she
had used on the DigiTart project. "Talk to her." His
authoritative tone was unconvincing. A bad and guilty boy, afraid of
Clare.

Clare put the headset on, catching the remnants of the
sore patch on her ear. What do I say? She stared at Bob who
looked away and then at Medway who simply shrugged.

"Hello, Miela. Can you hear me? It’s Clare
Farral."

"Clare?" Frail and afraid – a voice lost in
her own personal, hellish darkness. Odd, really, because this was
only Bob-Hell, a mere whisper of what Phil could do.

"It’s me."

There was a long silence. "Are you all right?"

Clare moistened her lips. "I’m fine." That
was a lie.

Miela took a long time to consider that. The audio loop
rattled a few times, tiny fragments of words like someone mentally
clearing their throat. "Are they doing this to you too?"

"No." Guilt blossomed again. "They just
brought me in to talk to you."

"I’m sorry. They know you lied about Doctor
Elsworth. They know you lied about a lot of things. I’m afraid they
don’t understand."

"I had to."

Clare ran her fingers through her hair. This could
have been me. "I know. I understand. But they want
to know why."

A long silence and then, "I can’t say. He won’t
let me."

"He’s not here."

Miela gave a sad laugh. "He’s always close.
You’ve felt his lessons."

"Yes." But no more than a taste, the torture
entrée for a day or two, whilst Miela had endured years of the full
menu of Phil.

"Then you do understand."

“I wish I didn’t...” but all Phil had really
taught Clare was anger, and a desire for revenge. Miela had learned
endurance and submission. "Will he come for you? Will he come
for me?" Teach me to give up?

"Of course he will. Especially for you. I don’t
think he needs me any more."

“You are the future. He kept saying that. The future.”
That sounded like envy, but it still wasn’t right. “I was
the future once.” And that sounded like a lie.

“Miela... I will do what I can. Talk to you soon..."
She almost said sorry.

Bob cut the connection. "You should have said ‘try
to remember something’ or make the offer of help conditional on
information." He sighed and stared at the slender figure, jaw
muscles clenching. "I’ll have to turn the pain back on."
The little boy was still eager to rip another wing from the fly,
still feeling the guilt. “I’ve got the pattern now. Pain exposure
has caused habituation. Even mild pain will work, if it’s
unfamiliar...”

"Don’t bother," Clare told him bluntly. Only
so many eyes, only so many flies. "She’s felt far worse...
and she will adapt. You don’t even begin to know the meaning
of pain. Or how Miela reacts."

"I know what I’m doing," he muttered.

"Phil is an expert.” And
that was the real point – an expert, with years of experience, and
Miela was his toy, the one he honed his craft on. “He’s
been teaching her since her eye implants were done. She’s utterly
conditioned to obey him. Classic carrot and stick, Bob. Heavy on the
stick. Carrot garnish."

"I can match him in that. Vary the parameters..."

"Pain beyond anything you can imagine...” Clare
laughed, sharp and humourless, because the memory was still there,
strong as ever. Need to scream, can’t scream. “Or...
or...” The dirtiest, trickiest, twist... “Or an orgasm like the
greatest shag you ever had." She stared at him contemptuously.
“Pain like you’ve never known. Joy you beg to end. Pain. Joy.
Pain. Joy.” She tapped him hard in the chest, driving home the
point with a finger. “He can switch them on and off. On and off...
Over and over. You have no idea, Bob. On and off. Pain and joy. Until
you’ve got no fucking idea which is which..." And I only
got lost for an hour or two...

Clare stepped back, took a breath, found something like
control.

“Shit.” She stared at Medway. "What did Una say
about my processors? Something about really massive feedback to the
cortical interface?"

Medway nodded. "Pleasure or pain. It would be the
ideal way of building conditioning. You were right – you are
supposed to be a weapon.”

“Shit. Miela isn’t the point. Isn’t the one that
matters. This whole bloody charade was to get me here. Wired for...
for...”

“Well, you can’t do that.” Medway offered a smile.
“I will if I get the chance. Whatever he’s done... you should be
safe if you keep away from Elsworth. It would take time to develop
the conditioning."

"Unless there’s something buried, just waiting
for the right trigger." Clare ran her fingers over the numbvest,
unable to feel the pressure on her breasts, unable to feel the buried
processor arrays. "No telling what might be in there."

Clare remembered the minutes of torment in Miela’s
quarters – and it had only been minutes even though it had
seemed like hours. The data scrambler had reduced her to nothing.
Phil, the master of digital torture, had hammered her flat until she
broke.

Bob was staring at her, as if wondering where to put a
second gel tank.

"I’ll be fine," she said firmly. "I’ll
go and talk to Calder. We’re wasting our time on Miela."

"The information has been relayed to him,"
Madame announced. "Please stand by."

Bob muttered under his breath. No bloody respect.
Now that he was safely back within the confines of the Lilywhite
enclaves he no longer needed Clare as his buffer against the world.

The terminal came alive with Calder’s face.

"Bob, get yourself down to the Kombat suite. The
next round of the cyberwar is starting. Una is being… interesting."

Bob rose out of his sulk in an instant. "What about
Miela?" Even from his tone of voice it was obvious that she was
no longer an interesting enough problem – one he might come back
to, but nothing immediate.

"Not your problem any more," Calder said
flatly. "Clare – Miela is your problem. I am
formalising what has been the case for the last few days. Your
appointment as an executive assistant is confirmed. You will report
directly to myself or Emily. Your present assignment is to find out
what Miela knows and where we might find Philip Elsworth. Are you up
to it? Yes or no."

“Yes.” That was a no-brainer... just don’t grin.
This is serious... “I am.” There was nothing clear-cut
about the hierarchy within the Lilywhite corporation, but anyone who
reported only to Calder or Emily was on top. Bob was obviously trying
to figure out their relative standing – Executive Assistant or
Director, what was the difference in the Lilywhite world?

“Good.” Calder gave her a look – I knew you
would say that. “Get to it.”

“You have a rapport... use it. And...” What would
Kyla say? I know you can use a gun, Medway... but can you use
your brains? “Advice from a mutual friend... listen to what
Miela says, listen to how she says it, watch as she answers... and
then put it all together. And think before you ask anything.”

“Thanks...” Bob’s direct interface was no use.
The flat voice, electronically rendered, hid details. “Calder... I
want to take Miela out of the tank."

Calder’s eyes flicked to a random point in the
room,watching a different screen. "I don’t pay executive
assistants to piss around asking my permission to do things. Just get
it right – or deliver your own head in a bucket if you fuck up."

“Don’t you mean on a plate?”

“Bucket. Not planning to eat failure, Clare. I just
want to look before you go in the trash.” He relaxed a fraction.
"Officer Medway, if you would care to follow Director Critchley.
I understand you have a few questions to ask. I believe one of my...
teams... tried to kill you."

“Do a full weapon check before you go in.” Except
this was politics, or worse still, corporate politics – far
outside Kyla’s expertise. “I can... wing it.” And
Superintendent Morrison did say... “My boss wants whoever is
responsible for Kyla, and all the rest of the crap. Not just Niels
and his pal. Whoever is behind it. My boss was very clear. He
wants their balls hanging from a hook over the front door.”

“You and me, both. Winging it.”

Clare turned to Miela. I can do this... "I
can do better than Bob."

"Hah.” Bob was still defensive even though they
were supposedly back in his comfort zone.

"Done all right so far," Clare snapped back.
"Go play with your toys. Leave the real-world stuff to me."

"Your head in the bucket." Bob stamped
away, ahead on points, at least in his own mind, but he lingered at
the door. Just need one more round, one perfect come-back...

“Clare... this wing it...” Medway got between
them, interrupted the spat, contemplating Clare, what she knew, what
Kyla would really say... "I think you’ve got what it
takes. I can guess most of your background. I’m sure you’ve seen
the wrong side of more than one cybercop. Remember, this cosy
corporate world is even more dangerous than the streets you think
you’ve left behind."

Not fair. Not fair. Bob ground his teeth, still
waiting for the perfect comeback... Nothing. “Officer
Medway... with me...” Not fair...

Clare grinned at Medway. "Whatever happens, I
intend to enjoy it."

"Should have been a fucking cybercop yourself."
Medway couldn’t help returning the grin. “Kyla would have peed
herself laughing at this...” She turned and strode after Bob.

"OK." Clare turned to the meditechs. "Get
her out."

There was a hoist and harness above the tank. The techs
split into two teams, one moving an access gantry around the tank,
the other kitting up a guy in a bright, glossy blue bodysuit and
respirator mask. The scuba expert dropped into the tank, moving
slowly through the dense, viscous gel to remove Miela's multiple node
connections.

Miela rose slowly from the goop and Clare prowled around
the small medical suite, looking into each of the side rooms. There
was a recovery area with a simple bed, and medical supervisor in
standby-mode.

"Put her in here..." Miela hung limp above the
tank, dripping gel. "Mmmm..." Clare was distracted by the
scuba-tech stripping off. "Eyes on the job..."

Clare watched Miela –
disoriented and afraid to do anything, barely able to stand when they
finally set her down. She had to be supported in the shower to have
the gel rinsed off; and carried to the side-room. Helpless at every
step, but not obviously in any real pain...

“Shit...” Pain.
That was something due
soon...Clare checked the status of her numbvest.
“Shit, shit, shit...” The anaesthetic cartridge was almost empty
and the spares were in Lameduck. According to the simple diagnostic
display, she had about twenty minutes left before screaming...
"Madame? Is there someone who can run an errand for me?"

"Of course. Calder has placed all of the DigiTart
staff on general duties until the project may be restarted. What do
you require?"

"Another of these." She tapped the cartridge.
"There’s a spare in Officer Medway’s car – unless you have
a supply here."

The meditechs were still fussing around Miela in the
recovery room, getting her dry and dressed in a medical smock. Clare
followed them in – Miela was visibly recovering but unsettled,
limbs twitching as the team worked around her.

"OK, everyone out.” Miela was still disoriented
and vulnerable, but that was a closing window of opportunity. Clare
leant close and whispered, “It’s over. All over. No more.
Bastards...” Come on, look at me, trust me, let’s bond...
The perfect moment to use that rapport between victims. She raised
her voice again to shoo the medi-techs out. “I’ll get Madame to
call you guys if I need anything." And then another whisper for
Miela. “We’re fine, yes? Better off on our own...”

Clare watched Miela unfurl – eyes brighter,
posture steadily less hunched, movement more confident. As each one
of Bob’s techs walked out, she got better. The power of rapport...
to be used quickly, before the moment faded.

“How are you feeling?”

"It is strange... I can't reach the company net."
Miela’s voice was nearly as flat and dead as the earlier electronic
form. The little smile, head dipping briefly to one side, all said
that that was supposed to be a joke from the lost woman,
reaching out for sympathy. "Like after a bad disconnect.” Head
still, gaze almost steady – please remember how I was when that
happened, weak and helpless. “Thanks for getting me out...
thanks... really thanks..." That rapport cut both ways. She
twitched the smock – see me, fragile and afraid. "This
is confusing my nodes."

"Sorry.” Clare picked over all the pieces –
Miela, lost, afraid, helpless, clinging to that rapport – and it
all added up to being played. Miela was milking it, projecting
a fragile kitten illusion. “I don’t know what they did with your
clothes."

Miela winced. "Doesn’t matter…" She
flinched again. Real pain, or
playing the part? "Can you just help me with this? Just
get it off my shoulders…"

She looked skinnier than ever. The node mountings stood
out clearly under skin lightly puckered from immersion in the gel.
Clare traced the outline of one along the bottom of her ribcage where
the skin was badly flushed.

"Not good," Miela agreed peering down. "Mild
infection.” Her fingers stroked the reddened path, delicate,
inviting help. “Need to get that seen to.” And then eye
contact, wide-eyed and worried. “Is there any dermasafe around
here?” Please help me. Please... “Usually comes in a
pale green tube. A really lovely, lovely, pale, pale green. So pale
and green and lovely."

"I’ll go and look." Clare stepped out into
the tank room, just to get away for a moment. Winging it was not
going so well, and that rapport was a sucking pool of
quick-sand. “Back in a moment,” she called back through the
door. Take a moment. Just breathe, and think, and work out
what to do next. Take control, Clare... That was definitely
what Kyla would say. Even if you can’t, just do it. You don’t
have to appear strong to take control... be weak and helpless. Let
your enemy want to help... Exactly what Miela was doing.
“Shit...” There was a glass panel in one wall, a cupboard filled
with medical supplies including the distinctive green tubs of
dermasafe. Clare stared at it a while, just gathering breath and
wits. “Found it...”

Clare dragged a chair over to sit beside Miela. "You
already said that."

"I mean it."

"I know...” Still playing me... “But
seriously... I need your help. Phil is a threat and I need to find
out what he plans next. "

"Just accept it. Phil will do whatever he
wants. You can’t stop him." Miela inspected the rest of her
nodes, looking them over one by one, because that was so much more
important than talking about Phil. "Could you just rub some in?”
Come on, just wade further out into the quicksand. “Best to
do all of them.” Let me bring you down.

"I can't accept that…" There was a
knock on the door. When Clare opened it, Annie was standing there,
holding the anaesthetic cartridge.

"Rising to the top," she joked nervously,
handing it over, glancing at Miela.

"Along with the rest of the scum," Clare
agreed then lowered her voice. "Time of opportunity, Annie. Time
for a smart girl to make an impression."

Annie winked. "Sure." She looked at Miela
again. "Need any help?" She jiggled her breasts,
two-handed, and red motes winked from the depths of her cleavage.
“What do you think? I like the red...”

“Suits you...” Clare shook her head. "But not
this time. Solo job."

"We’re fine on our own," Miela confirmed.

Annie shrugged and slipped away.

“She’s nice,” Miela said wistfully. “And what
was that between her breasts? All pale and green and lovely...”

Unreliable – that was Annie, right? "A bit wild,"
Clare agreed, putting the cartridge to one side and picking up the
dermasafe. "But... Lilywhite has uses for her. Her sexual
orientation and preferences are… unique, but she will do almost
anything with anyone to get what she wants. All pale and green and
lovely..." Red, red, red... Bio-luminescent motes
gleaming in the dark of Annie’s cleavage. Green and lovely...

Red, red, red... Clare couldn’t move to swat
that annoying fly. Nor open the window in her head to let it in. Or
out. Or whichever way it wanted to go.

“Perfect. We’re all set...” Miela reached out and
stroked Clare’s cheek. "Sweet are the uses of adversity,"
she recited softly.

Clare froze completely, mind and body locked, as the
meaningless phrase suddenly became familiar, pale green antiseptic
dripping from her fingers onto the floor. The next words were clear
in her mind and the virtual screen unfurled to display them with the
illusion of glowing text.

"Which is like the toad…" Miela continued
as if prompting, idly guiding Clare to rub in the excess ointment.

Clare was lost in the glass monstrosity of the Coriolis
buildings, the great crouching frog... or toad... pale and green and
lovely... just demanding that she complete the line. "Ugly and
venomous."

The final words screamed for release. Bold letters in
her head. A growing font, and flashing background. Meta-data behind
the text demanded compliance. The glass toad of the Coriolis building
opened its mouth wide, crouched at the feet of a towering Phil
Elsworth.

"In his head." She whispered the words, but
they reached everywhere, completing a memory-association with her
processor arrays. Una had found nothing buried or hidden, but Phil
had been more devious than simple encryption or concealment. A marked
script filled her memory, a false recollection of a past performance.

"As You Like It." Clare couldn't stop herself.
The words demanding release carried a promise of appalling pain if
she refused, a rising, goading terror to force obedience. She was
there. A time, a place, a performance put on with close friends, a
perfect lie being replayed as truth.

"You know it," Miela said softly. "William
Shakespeare. Do you know which year he died in?"

Clare did because her processors sprayed the number
across her internal view, caveated with warnings to tell no one. It
was pointless, except as a demonstration of her subjugation. The
session of torture with Phil suddenly made sense. He had not been
trying to extract information, but to implant it, programming Clare
and Miela, two inert components of a deadly mixture.

"Do you know?" Miela repeated.

"Yes." Nothing more than a whisper, full of
regret.

"So tell me," Miela prompted, her eyes meeting
Clare’s, knowing perfectly well that the date would never be
spoken. "Oh well, perhaps it would be better if we were alone."

Clare was no longer winging it. Every thought and action
was now dictated by a rigid script, and Miela was there to prompt if
she hesitated over her lines.

<Farral: Madame, this might take a while.>

<Madame: I will continue monitoring. I have access to
the full works of Shakespeare.>

A dozen snappy answers went by, but they faded until
there was nothing but the script.

Clare watched the conversation on her virtual screen, a
carefully planned infiltration. When she tried to generate a message
of her own there was nothing.

"Madame that message was…" The word ‘fake’
wouldn’t come out. It stuck in her throat, refusing to budge,
defending itself with a rising mire of anxiety.

"You’re wasting your time." Miela sat up
unsteadily, no longer the helpless kitten, more a wounded lioness
circling equally crippled prey. "The security monitors are now
being fed a signal from my processors. It needed a trusted party to
insert the trojan into the system. You must accept it. Phil owns
you.” And there, the softness was back, inviting her into a shared
universe of pain and servitude. “You will carry out his
requirements perfectly." She stood carefully and turned her
back. "Do the nodes that look red. We don’t have time for much
else. You can finish doing it properly later."

A distant recollection of pain skimmed across Clare's
consciousness, the most ingenious compulsion. If the program started
playing its games of agony through her cortical interface there would
be something tangible to fight – even if it wasn’t real. She knew
that she could resist Phil and his infliction of pain, but fear,
uncertainty and hints of remembered nightmares burrowed directly
under her defiance.

"Now what?" Clare mechanically anointed each
node which looked infected. A few days ago she would have enjoyed
doing this.

"There is a service entrance – part of the
underground levels of the building. Now that I have access to the
building systems, you can pass unseen. Your processors will act as my
focus, and your own skills will provide most of what is needed. You
will open the external door and then escort Phil to the Kernel Kombat
suite. The detailed instructions are already embedded."

"I... I... refuse... will not... I refuse."
Falling. Drowning. Starving. Trapped in a subsistence hovel. A toy
for the boys...

There was inevitability. Nothing to refuse.

"You know you can’t. The pain is a part you –
accept it. Embrace it."

"Can’t…"

"I didn’t say enjoy.” Miela took Clare’s
hand, smoothed away green goo, and kissed her knuckles. “You can
never enjoy it, but accept the rewards.” A kiss on the back
of her wrist. “I can help you with that.” And the inside of her
wrist, long and lingering. “Time to go." She took the tub of
dermasafe.

Clare’s hands were shaking. She had assured Medway she
would do better than Bob. Phil planned this. A trap with layer upon
layer where everyone played their part, Bob, Miela, Clare, even
Calder. So many ways it could have failed, such an indication of
genius that it didn’t.

Clare stood up, hunting for a gap in her control,
testing for the limits of Phil’s influence. The threat of suffering
loomed with every thought of action outside her instructions. No
escape. Falling. Drowning. Starving...

As she turned towards the door, she saw a random
variable not covered by Phil’s carefully crafted scheme. All she
had to do was nothing...

The next great commercial cyberwar has just started - bullets as well as bytes. Clare Farral is an operator on the DigiTart project, calibrating an AI system, the future of online sex services, and then her friend Kyla is found dead.
Lianne Medway is a police officer, Enhanced Division - a cybercop - called out to the murder of her old partner, Kyla.

Mark Huntley-James

I like stories, reading them, telling them, writing...
The rest of the time, I trained as a physicist and worked in R&D for a number of years before moving to commercial software development. Now I live on a smallholding on the edge of Bodmin Moor with my partner, multiple cats, chickens, geese and a flock of rare-breed sheep.